The Pale Letter
The ink on the letter Elara Vane wrote to the town clerk was still wet when she sealed the envelope, the sharp smell of iron gall cutting through the stale air of her cramped room. It was November 1893, and the frost had already begun to creep up the windows of the textile mill where she worked, a chill that seemed to seep into her bones faster than the gaslight could warm them. She was thirty...
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